


Bloodlust: A Taste of Hybristophilia

by LilyWilde



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blood Kink, F/M, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Multi, Not Beta Read, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Prompt Fill, There will be smut soon, Work In Progress, pre-caws
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:26:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3860083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyWilde/pseuds/LilyWilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which we meet an egotistical and unpleasant woman who is quite rightfully in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody but naturally none too pleased about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloodlust: A Taste of Hybristophilia

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for some blood and gore, mildly sexy thoughts, creepy rapey thoughts, bad words, general squickiness, no one at all being very nice and extremely amateur writing. Because sometimes bad grammar is much more upsetting than graphic sex, am I right?

The prisoner kept her head down, her hands clenched softly as they rested near her thick, plump waist, her swiftly darting gaze and shrewd expression hidden by her matted, wet hair. There was no need to watch where she was walking but her hazel green eyes missed nothing of interest. Every glimpse of a clock or a calendar was noted. Time slipped away or dragged endlessly in confinement therefore anything which grounded one to a specific, real location in time and space was worth clutching tightly. Doors relabeled or briefly open were listed and anything seen within was cataloged and added to her ever growing mental map. Other prisoners in their cells or being transported could be observed and identified, even if she gave no sign when there was an almost searing flash of recognition at the sight of a former research fellow, lab mate, rival or colleague in captivity. New staff looking uncertain of themselves or eager and shining with the sense of purpose that bespoke youth, idealism and other foolish faults could be easily exploited. The cracked glass of a shatterproof barrier window _(Ah! Something more than human did that; something –interesting- is here now!)_ , the exposed cabling where an outlet was being replaced, equipment and parts where a new bank of controls was being added, tools left on a ladder where a camera was in the midst of repair…. Anything at all might be a weakness in her enemy or an advantage to her. If nothing else, she needed the data to stimulate her brain, fend off intellectual stagnation and delay the decay of her talents and her value to HYDRA. She knew herself well. An idle mind was far too likely to lead towards madness. It was a family flaw, after all.

The SHIELD guards on either side of her were used to her passive, slumped shuffle and dull, frightened compliance with routine orders. They guided her motion, dragged her along when she slowed and looked around or upwards as if bewildered, hauled her upright if she staggered or started to collapse. Stumbling sideways, thumping lightly against one of them, brought an absentminded curse and a backhanded, casual cuff. Yet the violence was not just mild but desultory, passionless, lacking in cruel joy. SHIELD was soft with mercy and always, always, she wore hazy, leaden eyes and a pathetic, sad mouth. Her armor -meager though it may be- was the boring, spiritually beaten face of one already broken, too far ground down to be worth the effort of punishing. These days, the entire incident slipped their minds almost before the sting faded from Headley’s knuckles. They noticed nearly nothing and reported even less, leaving no pattern to trace. Being forgettable was a kind of tiny invisibility. To be underestimated was a subtle strength.

They shoved her through the open door of her cell, Alvarez’s boot hooking around her ankle, the bitch. There was no question of opening her hands to catch herself, not when she had spent so long training them to think nothing of her clumsy brushes and bumps that had allowed her to snag so many tiny treasures. Instead she flicked the latest of her little victories into the dark corner under the bunk while her body hid her hands from view, then twisted to land on her side. Better to absorb the force with fleshy hip and rounded shoulder, using her cowering arms to spare her head. She was whimpering piteously before she even registered the minor impact. Pulling her knees to her soft stomach as if expecting them to storm in and start putting the boots to her, she curled into a trembling ball, tucking her –other-, larger prize safely into her facility-issued sock.

Of course there was no kick, no blow, just the juvenile bullying that seemed to pass as SHIELD muscle flexing. An openly sadistic beating she could have respected. Pain –real pain- might have made her wonder if these fools would ever have the necessary ruthlessness to improve or even protect humanity, if there was a slim chance that they could be worth risking defection somehow.  An alternative option to fall back on someday? Someday, if her comrades, if her –family- didn’t retrieve her. Could they have forgotten all her achievements? Could they have discarded her, abandoned her?  

“Jesus, shut –up-! You’re pathetic! Fat fucking HYDRA cow.” Alvarez sneered, slamming the largely transparent cell door in disgust.  Name calling? Tripping people, classless vulgarity and playground insults, seriously? Honestly, ugh, that was just contemptible, childish even. No, she would never join SHIELD. HYDRA saw everything, forgot nothing. They were only waiting for the strategic moment, perhaps testing her loyalty. Patience now, retribution later.

 _Alvarez, Anna Maria. Date of birth: 4/23/1986. Level 4. SHIELD Agent number…._ The prisoner recited silently, even as she pulled herself to her knees, shoulders hunched, sucking and biting at the swollen tenderness where Headley had split her lip in the corridor, bringing forth bright, fresh blood.

“Get over here and give me your hands or you can spend the next 3 days trying to wipe your ass in those cuffs.” Headley sighed, bored beyond irritation with the whole incident, sliding the pass through portal in her cell door open and even reaching in to snap his fingers as if summoning a dull-witted dog.

She skittered over swiftly, as if hasty obedience was more important than the dignity of regaining her feet to stand like a woman. Looking up into Headley’s face, her eyes shone with a suggestion of tears. She licked the shimmer of blood from her mouth in a slow sweep of her tongue intended to pass as nervous or erotic depending on the mindset of the target. Judging by the way it arrested his attention on her full, rather sensual lips, he was susceptible. She presented her wrists docilely, shoulders drawn back, her hitching, gasping breath smoothing out into deeper, more soothing patterns as soon as he touched her, drawing his gaze to her generous, heaving breasts. There was a sudden flicker of dark interest, then guilt, over Headley’s big square clean cut face, the shame receding and the heat kindling slightly when the prisoner brushed his inner wrist with the pad of her thumb and whispered, “Thank you, sir.” timidly, like a good little captive as the manacles came off.

Behind the show of fear and hints of flirtation, she contemplated the ways another sort of person could wrench him forward to smash his nose against the transparent barrier. _It would bloom with blood, vivid crimson against the shining surface! Would he roar with the pain or keen in shock?_ It would be sheer simplicity to shatter his forearms against the ledge with sudden downward force, a visceral delight to twist and pull for spiral breaks, increase bone sheering and tissue damage. Perhaps unfortunately, she was ill-suited to acts of physical brutality herself. More connoisseur than creator of violence, her mind was by far the better weapon.  Her hands were intended for more refined, precise work than pummeling her way out of situations.

Alvarez was oblivious, grumbling about having a night shift the second weekend in a row and how her ambitions of being noticed by the higher ups were being thwarted by not even having any high profile prisoners on this wing. In the prisoner’s mind, the female guard’s whining was heightened to pleas for the pain to stop as images of Alvarez -trim athletic body bruised, bound and being ripped free of her uniform by a merciless metallic hand- danced deep behind deceptively soft eyes.

She had to think of something amusing to generate the libido needed to play these petty games with the likes of Headley, after all. She could hardly imagine he would ever have the will to power to take advantage of her proffered submission. Still, observation and experimentation, studying and toying with the enemy was a decent way to pass the time even if it was unlikely to yield any immediate benefits.

As soon as the sound of their steps receded, she was hidden away, deep within the labyrinth of her mind. She was busy placing Alvarez higher on the kill list with a nail driven through her pretty, skinny face to pin her image to the red board, shifting Headley’s position on the green corruption / recruitment board, adding the metal clip, body and nearly full ink reserve of her stolen pen to her mental inventory along with the freshly pilfered pass card. Headley habitually used his key card to open doors when he and Alvarez were on duty together, either out of some peculiar sense of chivalry or because he was simply less fond of gratuitous use of a stun stick. It could theoretically be the next day before either of them noticed and by then they may cover up the loss to avoid a reprimand, assuming it was misplaced elsewhere. A worthwhile gamble.

When her analysis of new information could be dragged out no longer, she turned for comfort to her mental resources, letting the memory of a favorite song from the 1980’s wash over her like actual music as she turned her mind to perfect recall of a familiar book. It was almost easier to dwell inside her own head then to tolerate the stark, repetitive, banal boredom of the objectively real world, lately. That, she realized, should probably concern her. Instead she smiled at the sensation of slow, creeping madness insinuating itself within her mind.

The entire Earth, all of human society, was an empire of dirt. There were better worlds than this. Within HYDRA, she had been raised to help build one such world from the wreckage in the wake of the on-coming storm. But it was so much simpler to spin one out of dreams and support it with scraps of memory. A perfect, private kingdom she could protect from intrusion. An internal universe, ideal and entirely mental, unencumbered by her hated flesh, and all its limitations, failures and faults.

It was several hours later when she reluctantly returned her attention to her body and its surroundings, lifting her head under the scratchy blanket she had wrapped about herself like a cloak as she sat cross-legged on her bunk, back straighter than usual, breathing controlled, shoulders squared. She noted with mild amusement that her restless hands had been busy finger-combing and drying her mousey brown hair back into its usual slightly lank waves while her mind had been deep in contemplation of the classic works of Carl Jung as contrasted with the much less lyrical but infinitely more practical Behaviorists such as Skinner and Pavlov.

She inhaled slowly, nose lifting, caught the scent of what passed for food in this holding facility and immediately resumed her defeated, hangdog demeanor. Feeding time at the zoo. She feigned greater interest than she felt, just as she repressed signs of her joy when chances at books were offered, but it was enough to make her slip her prison-issued shoes back on, standing with a slow, lazy stretch.

She was watching Alvarez and Headley make the meal rounds when she felt a tingling sort of mental itch, like the hook of a once-beloved song, something thought to be forgotten completely but that never really left you. She cocked her head left and right, even moved within her cell to try to isolate and place it, eyes closing to focus.

That whirring hum-click-hum-tink sound pattern was far from obtrusive. In fact, it was almost entirely lost in the ambient noise of the prison but it was as distinctive to her as the opening bars of Bach’s Toccata in D Minor, far sweeter than sunlight. It was the sound of a very special, very particular piece of technology, a weapon she had dreamt of a thousand times during her life and had almost lost all hope of even seeing again.

She would never be a glamorous spy, a master assassin, a feared martial artist or a renowned sorceress. Unlike Tony Stark, she would never be deemed an inventive genius, and she was certainly no one’s idea of a hero. Nonetheless, she was possessed of an unusual brain and a unique skill-set.  Her lack of charm, grace, strength and power prevented her from easily winning respect, but she had driven herself to learn medical and mechanical sciences and master other complementary skills. She came to use the knowledge she gained and instinct she followed in ways that perhaps no one else would think of or dare attempt.  She specialized in the narrow margin between meat and metal, the interaction between technology and biology, in the similarities, differences and interplay between them. In her, hard scientific knowledge and dark, ephemeral inspiration had danced together, breed a gift, and birthed an obsession. In the connection between mind and matter, in code and image, devices sang to her.

She smiled as a warmth rose in her like smoke, coiling and spreading from the core of her being. Licking and biting her lips absentmindedly, she smoothed her clothing and swiftly braided and wrapped a section of her hair around the rest, forming a practical ponytail. She was grateful, in passing, that today had been her chance to shower then laughed softly as she realized she was –preening-, trying to make herself look as presentable as circumstances would permit. There were two very diverse possibilities and regardless of which she faced, she felt a sense of pride, relief and a flicker of visceral heat. He had come. Her Soldier had come for her at last.

She gathered what few hoarded, stolen or smuggled belongings she thought might be of use in the coming moments and secreted them about her person, tucked into clothing and shoes, hidden in the crown of her hair, slipped into her cleavage. Of her exceedingly few permitted possessions, she grabbed only two notebooks, both cramped with inane, self-indulgent, and at times badly spelled but always cringe-inducing prose and poetry written to camouflage the much more concise coded entries she preferred not to leave behind.

“What the hell are you doing with- Is that my engraved pen, you whale!?!” Alvarez exclaimed suddenly as she turned, the industrial, unappetizing tray of grayish meatloaf and faux mashed potatoes in her hand, spotting the glint of florescent lighting off the cheap gold-plated pen the prisoner was tucking between her breasts.

“Writing your epitaph. And that’s Dr. Wyndham to you, imbecilic cunt.” The prisoner chuckled, her contralto voice slightly rough with disuse, just before the glittering metal fingers appeared through the ventilation grate above the hallway.  The guards stared at their suddenly wild-eyed and defiant captive in something approaching shock as a broad metallic fist punched down and ripped the heavy, welded steel vent free. As it fell, a powerful, compact masculine form, all lean muscle and predatory grace, dropped into view hanging as if from parallel bars, caught the grating with the toes of his combat boots with a perfect half pike and sent it slamming into Headley, knocking him to his hands and knees. He executed an effortless looking, even thoughtless, but precise double backflip as he dropped to land in a catlike crouch on the fallen guard’s back with a sharp snap of bones

Alvarez dropped the tray, exclaiming, “ _Madre de dios_!” She grabbed her stun stick from her hip and shouted, “Man down! We need back up, here!”

Dr. Wyndham was vaguely aware of the chaos suddenly erupting throughout the prison: the sounds of distant firefights, of alarms blaring and echoing screams. The hallway lights flickered, red and yellow alerts flashing on digital signs on doors and walls adding an additional layer to the surrealistic effect of the strobing florescence illuminating the scene. None of it mattered. No distraction, no force of will, nothing could tear her eyes away from the glorious killing machine before her.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if I missed any warnings or anything. Constructive criticism is welcome. I have no beta reader and am terrible at self-editing but honing my meager skill. Comments are actively encouraged and highly likely to receive replies.


End file.
